


Ricochet

by thrives



Category: Cowboy Bebop (Anime)
Genre: Action & Romance, Background Gren/Faye, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Heavy Angst, Non-Graphic Smut, Pining, Sad Ending, Tragic Romance, anyway, as much as i wish it didn't happen, faye is very dramatic as usual, it's not love but it's something, some shooting bang bang fun stuff, spike is kind of you know, spikefaye, spikexfaye, syndicate drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21712081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrives/pseuds/thrives
Summary: He lowers his mouth to her ear and murmurs, "You're shivering.""Heater's broken," she whispers.
Relationships: Background Grencia Eckener/Faye Valentine, Grencia Eckener/Faye Valentine, Spike Spiegel & Faye Valentine, Spike Spiegel/Faye Valentine
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77





	Ricochet

**Author's Note:**

> idk man just take this

# R I C O C H E T

There's a word for it on Earth, visions that come and go in the thick of grief _—_ Faye's forgotten the name, like she's forgotten most things. She needs a drink; the ridges of her cheekbone are shadowed violet, hair damp and tangled from the rain. The bartender slides her a glass of whiskey, whistling to himself. Her pistol lies heavy and cold against her thigh.

Spike slumps into the seat next to her. His eyes haven't lost that half-dead look. "Tough luck," he murmurs.

Faye tips the rest of the whiskey into her mouth. "You win some, you lose some."

He leans back, lighting up with the flick of his wrist. Exhales. "Feels like we've got a losing streak."

"Feels like there's something you're not telling me," she says. Plucks the cigarette from his hand and takes a long drag, savoring the burn at the back of her throat.

Spike rests his left hand on the counter, tilts his head back, eyes closed. "Nothing personal, Faye."

There's a long, pale scar that runs from his index finger to pulse point, curling around his palm. He has slender, capable hands. It's an afterthought of the strangest kind.

She grinds the ash under her heel. "It's always _personal_."

***

It's always personal _with him_ , is what she neglected to say.

He's tall and lean and broad-shouldered, and she's always _too_ aware, _unnervingly_ aware of his physicality, the lithe, sinewy muscle of his arms and the breadth of his chest, how he taps her head in the mornings or brushes a hand across her waist, a signal she's used to by now. She knows better than to linger. And the rest of him contradicts, all rumpled dark green hair and soft brown eyes and a little quirk of the mouth when he's trying not to smile. She's got too much room in her head. That's what she tells herself, partly because it makes things easier, and partly because there's no such thing as empty space.

She's learned that, at least. Nothing is ever really void.

And when he takes off in his zipcraft, she's got no guarantee that he'll come back. Because that's what they do _—_ promise no promises.

They do other things, too. 

***

He's from Mars; maybe they do things differently there. She wouldn't know.

"You've got a big mouth," he says.

She stretches, pulling both arms over her head, and grins like a Cheshire cat. "You were jealous."

He's still flipping that coin in one hand. His voice is light. "You really are a heartless woman."

That catches her off guard. "Oh?"

His smile is humorless. "To your left, Faye."

She turns, half-expecting a bullet to the gut. When she looks back, he's gone.

***

Jupiter teaches her faith.

Later, as Ed paints her nails on a drowsy Sunday afternoon, Faye whispers, "Do you think it's possible to love someone you only met once?"

(It's not like the kid would know.)

At the bar, Gren mentions superstition.

With his jacket around her shoulders, she tells him, “I’m a fairy, can’t you tell?”

His eyes are dark, tender blue. “That you are.”

It's not like she knows how to classify the stirring in her chest when he grasps her hand — like a thunderbolt, dazzling without a warning _—_ and she thinks someplace somewhere they call this kind of thing _wonder_. She’s wary of his kindness, but she can't help herself. Good men aren't part of her itinerary.

But for a moment in time, the pair of them knew something the rest of the world didn’t. The secret of two.

She’ll tell Jet later — _he’s not like anyone else._

Gren kisses her first. Confused but incapable of resisting, Faye slides her hands through his long hair and leans into that troublemaker grin. His mouth is a demand, slick and hot against hers; her thighs drift apart, inviting his touch. She grips his cheekbone in the heat of their lovemaking, burning his eyes into the back of her mind. In her pleasure she forgets to be dishonest. From her mouth to his.

He handcuffs her to the bed. “I’ve got something to do,” he tells her.

“Gren?” There’s a hot, telltale pinprick behind her eyelids. “If I never see you again…” 

He kisses her hand. “I could have known you,” he says quietly. “In another world. In a better world than this one.”

She almost tells him: _I know you._ She knows there’s plenty that wouldn’t call it love, but it’s her life, goddammit, and she’ll feel however the hell she wants to feel. She’ll call it love. That night with Gren and the warm golden light of the streetlamps, her lips parting — closest thing to peace she’ll ever get.

Gren dies. She finds out through Spike, shrugs. “Shame.”

(She cries into her pillow like she’s fifteen again. She feels childish but slighted, older but still lost.)

At least she has something to refer to when Spike is gone and Jet says, with equal parts sorrow and exasperation, “It’s Julia.”

***

It’s not like Spike’s ever sat her down and told her the insane trajectory of his life. She’s pieced together bits and pieces. No run-of-the-mill cowboy is familiar with the political battleground of the syndicates; it’s too tangled up with bloodlines and shattered alliances. Bounty hunters don’t play chess, they spin the wheel of fortune and place their bets.

The calculating nature of the syndicate game doesn’t sit well with beer and television. It suits Vicious, might have suited Spike before he knew love, could suit Faye if she had that sort of cutthroat intelligence.

It’s too much selfless work, is the thing. Loyalty not to herself but to a Dragon. Killing, a means to an end. Crap with blades and brotherhoods.

Faye can guess how well _that_ suited Spike. 

What came before the Red Dragon is anyone’s guess. Parents? School? Some miniature Julia holding his grubby hand? A bad dye job? Happiness, however fleeting?

What came after is easier but no prettier. A woman. A bad move. A false death. Then aimless existence, drifting from planet to planet in search of a life lost. 

And then the Bebop, and Jet, a missing poker chip, and a girl called Faye.

She doesn’t know much more than that.

***

The Mars mission is a failure.

Faye blames Poker Alice and Ein. Jet grumbles, “I should have kicked you off when I had the chance.”

“We got a chance,” Spike says.

Faye’s jaw drops, outraged. “You lunkhead—”

"I'll take Faye back down to try and get this bounty," Spike continues, like she’s not standing in the same room making a pretty fucking _valiant_ effort to avoid his eyes. "If she can remember how to shoot."

"It was one time," she sniffs, "and I said I was sorry afterward."

Spike peers down at the broken hatch. "I really don't think you did."

“Well, what _you_ think isn’t necessarily—”

“Get your gun, woman,” Jet growls, “and make yourself useful before I make you useless.”

***

No such thing as hindsight. Got a gun and a believer, which is which?

She gets under his skin.

He knows her better than anyone else in the galaxy. Not saying much — says too much. They don't get along, but they get along worse when they're not around each other. She'll throw one of her blankets over him when he's passed out on the couch. He brings her blueberries from Tharsis City. She hoses down the Swordfish; sometimes they'll sit on the deck and share a light, watching the sky bleed away.

They touch in inconsequential ways. The jab of an elbow. The tap of a shoulder. Hips jostling hips.

They bicker like an old married couple, trade insults like siblings, fight like they've been by each other's side since 2059 _._

They're friends, begrudgingly. Comrades. Partners until the end of the line, or at least the middle.

She's a placeholder. A waiting room.

_He's keeping you at arm's length because he's afraid of repeating the past._

Faye Valentine, Faye No-Last-Name. She's no match for love.

***

It's only when the bounty lunges for her throat and she turns instinctively into Spike's arms, just as he springs forward to protect her _—_ it's only then that she understands. He grips her waist with one hand, the other gripping his gun, eyes blazing as he fires. She fists the soft, worn material of his shirt between her fingers, presses her nose into the hollow of his throat.

"Faye," he says gently. "Faye." She can feel the rise and fall of his breath as he murmurs her name. Looks up, lost and a little afraid of what she'll find. His eyes soften. He thumbs her cheek, stroking the length of her jaw. "Hey. Faye."

She shakes her head. "He was going to kill me," she croaks. "He was really going to kill me."

There's a flicker of history in Spike's eyes. "Syndicate rules. Kill or be killed."

She gives him a small, bruised smile. "Am I growing on you, Spike?"

He leans his forehead against hers for a brief moment, then pulls back and snorts. "Not one bit."

***

It's dangerous to play for second place. 

She's deadlier than any ghost, that golden woman from Spike's past. A kind of haunting in herself. He's in his element when they're shooting at him; it's only called treading water when he's back in the shallows. Faye doesn't do deep ends. Time's nonlinear, more square than circular _—_ sooner or later she and Spike are bound to corner one another.

Until then, it's a give-or-take situation.

Mostly _take_.

Sometimes give _._ But when Spike is dragging his hands down her hips, she takes and takes.

She's a first place kind of girl, after all.

***

In some ways, he feels inevitable.

The first time he touches her, _really_ touches her, she’s lounging on the couch in her bare feet, dressed in a loose-fitting shirt that reaches her knees, reading some porno mag she found in the laundry room. (So that’s what the men have been up to — _real classy_.) Spike’s been gone a while, and she isn’t expecting him, not really, isn’t expecting the unfamiliar sound of metal on metal, of something heavy clattering against the ship floor. Expectations are another weight on her shoulders; better to discard them at the door.

Then he’s leaning against the doorway, sweaty and a little bloody, his mouth crooked.

“You’re back,” Faye says flatly.

He uncrosses his arms and says, “I had a couple errands to run.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he says.

His gaze is too intense for this kind of mundane rerun, but she tilts her chin up and stands, tossing the magazine at his feet. “I worry about my debts, and you’re not one of them.”

“Cards on the table, Faye."

She’s tired of it, whatever _this_ is, feeling everything so _goddamn_ much. “Yeah, well,” she says quietly. “Mine always have been.”

"Faye _—"_

"Don't start apologizing now," she says. "And don't lie."

She makes to move past him and that's when he curls his hand around her wrist. Her pulse flutters in recognition; a soft, muffled sound escapes her mouth. His eyes are hard. Slowly he lowers his mouth to her ear and murmurs, "You're shivering."

"Heater's broken," she whispers.

A low chuckle rasps from his mouth.

He releases her wrist and rests his hand on the swell of her hip, fingers stroking her skin. Goosebumps rise on her flesh. Goes like this: she closes her eyes, rising on her toes to slide her hands over the breadth of his shoulders. He smells of smoke, blood, something divine and earthy, draws his hand down the length of her navel. She presses her mouth to his neck and finds him half-hard, straining against her inner thigh.

He tips her head back and kisses her greedily, voluptuously. She savors the feel of his hands sweeping across her ass and skimming her thighs. His mouth is a caress, slow and serious. _He's_ serious. No ghost between their bodies this time; she'll go the distance.

He backs her up against the wall, pinning her arms above her head. She pushes into him, he licks at the edge of her mouth, grazing the edge of her clavicle with his teeth, soothing the sting with his warm tongue, and she frowns, missing him on her mouth, pulling at his hair. His eyes are glazed. He kisses her stomach, stroking her ribs, beneath her breasts, the ridge of her hips where she's lost weight. He's skin and bone too, but warmer and stronger than anything she's ever known. There's blood on her hands, might be his.

"Mmm." She wriggles out of his grasp, cupping his face with both hands. Call it personal. 

They kiss and _kiss_. The underworld rises up to meet her. Sirens blare. His hair is soft beneath her fingertips, and he pushes up her shirt, groaning when she arches her hips into his. He's impatient now, closing his mouth around her nipple and letting her shudder for a long moment, clever fingers dipping between her legs, stroking, coaxing, encircling.

She fists him through his pants and he gasps, thrusting into her hand. She angles herself downward, guiding him in, stretching, filling her so painstakingly that her vision whites out. _Been so long, wanted you for so long, wanted you, wanted, wanted..._

There's a price for everything.

***

Every mission is a failure, but it gets easier to tell him things.

He made the first move; she's no good at chess but knows the power rests in her hands. Something like that. If she's feeling sentimental, she'll offer him a smoke. It's the only way she knows to deal with his _come-hither_ look. They're sleeping together, grand cliche of all cliches. She wonders who cornered whom.

One night she tells him about Gren.

"I know," he says after a moment. "You aged ten years after Jupiter."

"Did I?"

"You know what I mean."

Faye sighs, tracing languid circles across his chest. "Us cowboys aren't built to last, Gaujo."

His voice is soft when he says, "It's been a hell of a ride though, Romani."

***

Some things make more sense than others.

Spike's death — not like he had a death wish. He wakes from a dream and she isn't there, or vice versa. She's a girl with nothing to her name, but she has memory enough for the both of them.

She has a past, and his name is Spike Spiegel.

She has a past, and it belongs on a ship called the Bebop, where a man with a metal arm, a crazy kid and a dog taught her love, grief, purpose.

 _Would you rescue me if it were true?_ _I need you, Faye... I have to do it, Faye... look at my eyes, Faye._

He's always going where she cannot follow.

**Author's Note:**

> inspo for this fic comes from the song "don't take the money" by bleachers. kudos & comments very, very much appreciated <3


End file.
